Category Archives: Writing

A Bridge Close To Home

Jane stood by the bridge railing, peering down to the surface of the river below. It didn’t seem so far down now. Every year on May 5th, she drove a county over and illegally parked on the bridge, got out, and peered down at the river. It was a ritual to mark her survival. Until this year, she made a point to drive over around the time of the original accident. For no discernible reason, she waited until five in the afternoon to drive over today.

Eleven years ago, she had plummeted over the railing and landed in the river. She had no idea who rescued her. The man who witnesses saw leaving didn’t come forward afterward. Some thought that the man was the driver who clipped her from behind and spun her out of control, sending her car over the railing. While it was possible, Jane didn’t believe it. She knew that whoever saved her had a darned good motive to stay out of the spotlight.

Jane returned to her car, turned off the emergency hazard lights, and pulled away from the railing. She slowly rolled the length of the bridge. As her car reached the end, she noticed an older yellow Chevy Cheyenne pickup on the side of the road past the bridge. A man wearing blue jeans and a white t-shirt stood in front of the truck, looking down toward the river.

Not knowing why she did so, Jane pulled a little further along and parked on the grass. She didn’t bother with her emergency lights this time. She reached into the passenger floorboard and picked up her flask of whiskey. Exiting the car, she walked along the far side of the Cheyenne pickup and stopped a few feet from the man in the white t-shirt.

She stood silently, staring at the river. She took a pull from the flask. As she wiped the side of her mouth with her hand, the man turned to look at her. Without a word, he took a step and reached for the flask. Jane didn’t hesitate. She handed him the flask and watched as he took a long sip.

His eyes widened in surprise, as he probably expected something of lesser quality. Jane never skimped on whiskey and she certainly wouldn’t have thought to do so during her yearly visit over to the bridge that changed her life.

“What are you watching?” Jane asked. “My name’s Jane, by the way.”

The man made eye contact with her and smiled. “The name’s Mark. Just thinking about a day a long time ago.”

“Oh? Me too. This bridge changed my life. It woke me up, if that makes sense.” Jane didn’t know what propelled her to speak honestly.

“I know exactly what you mean. This bridge saved my life. I used to come here every year, thinking I might find what I was missing. This is my first visit in five. It’s still beautiful.” Mark stopped talking and seemed wistful.

Jane took another pull from her flask and handed it back to Mark.

“This is great whiskey, Jane. Thanks!” They looked at each other and held eye contact for a second longer than normal. “I saved someone’s life here once. On a beautiful day exactly like today. It went from sunshine to hell in three seconds that day.”

Jane held her breath, calculating the odds of such a coincidence.

“I had my life saved her on a day exactly like today, Mark. One minute I was driving and the next, I was waking up on the riverbank right there.” She pointed below as she spoke.

They each took another sip of whiskey and let the silence accumulate between them.

Mark turned to face Jane directly. He seemed to struggle to say something. He shrugged and said, “Can I hug you?”

Jane stepped toward him and allowed Mark to wrap his arms around her, holding her against him. The sun beat down upon them and they held their pose. A vehicle passed slowly. Neither looked up to see who it was or whether they noticed the odd couple hugging on the side of the road and bridge.

Mark pulled away. “Would you be interested in going to eat, Jane? There’s a pretty spot up the road a couple of miles.”

“Are you kidding? I’d love to.” Jane smiled.

Mark smiled, showing his teeth. Jane watched the smile travel to his eyes.

“I might have a few questions for you, though, if that’s okay.” Jane watched Mark’s smile grow larger.

“I figured you might. Let’s eat and see what comes next.”

And so it began.

Be My Zest

The bowl of lemons remained on the end of the kitchen counter, taunting him. Darel continued to refill the basket in a mindless and intermittent ritual. He wasted a minute, lost in his thoughts, wondering how inanimate objects often contained invisible power. Before thinking too hard about it, he grabbed the wooden bowl of lemons, opened the back door, and stepped outside. He placed the bowl on the railing of his deck. One by one, he grabbed the lemons and hurled them across the yard and into his neighbor’s yard. Within seconds, he had thrown all of them.

“Hey, Darel? Is everything okay over there?” Darel looked up to see his neighbor John standing about twenty feet from the rear of his own house. John must have been standing outside when the barrage of lemons started pummeling his yard.

Darel surprised himself by shouting, “No!” to John.

John walked toward Darel. Darel, for his part, struggled to control the urge to turn and run back inside and barricade the door.

“It’s okay, Darel. It was just lemons this time. You must really be angry at lemons!” Even Darel smiled at John’s joke.

John now leaned against the chain-link fence separating their back yards. Darel walked over to the fence and stopped a few feet away from John, who now stood silently, waiting for Darel to speak.

“John, I don’t know what to say. Looking at the lemons in the kitchen just made me sad. I’ll be okay, I imagine.” Darel looked up at John as he nodded.

“I know what you mean. This pandemic has ruined us all a little. You’ve had it harder than most, Darel. My offer still stands: if you need an ear, a beer, or a meal, or maybe just someone to sit in the room and not talk to you, come on over. Anytime, okay?” John looked directly at Darel, who nodded and then smiled. Darel instinctively reached toward John to shake his hand. John took it and gripped it over the chain-link. “I mean it,” he said. “We can sit in my living room or on the back porch and ignore each other.”

*

The following day, Darel slept in late, until about 6:30 a.m. He made a pot of coffee out of habit, without thinking that he’d be the only one there to drink it. When he poured his first cup and noticed he made a whole pot, he decided that since it was Sunday, he might finish it off. He stood at the counter, sipping his first cup until he finished it. He poured a second cup and peered through the blinds and into the backyard.

“What the eff?” he asked, looking outside. It looked like one hundred tennis balls were scattered around his yard.

Darel took his second cup of coffee and went outside to his desk, peering at the ground. It took him several seconds to realize that the tennis balls were lemons. He jerked his head up and looked at the back of John’s house, which was still dark.

Darel walked out in the wet grass barefooted. He had the idea that John might be watching him from a darkened window, so he flipped a high bird in his direction. And then he laughed, his head thrown back in genuine amusement, as he imagined John out in his yard last night, tossing dozens of lemons into his yard.

“I need some vodka to go with all these lemons,” Darel said to himself as he sipped his coffee and shuffled his toes through the wet grass.

He decided he’d take John up on his offer. It was about time to stop looking into the rearview mirror. The pandemic had stolen enough from him.

He laughed again as he looked at all the lemons scattered in his yard. After he sipped the last gulp of his morning coffee, he went inside.

A Pandemic Romance Story With A Twist

It was love at first sight. He stood between the well-stocked aisles, mouth agape, shocked at the beauty in front of him. He had successfully ignored the growl of hunger inside himself for what seemed like days. A woman stood to the side, wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved blouse, a smile as big as Christmas on her face. She wore simple casual white shoes. More importantly, a wall of chips stood behind her, a collection of colors and flavors as diverse as any he’d witnessed. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on those chips, his fingers covered with a variety of flavorings. If only the woman would get the hell out of the way so he could get started.

Shattered Afternoon Muse

Jeff sat near the large bank of windows at the front of the diner. In front of him, he held a cup of coffee between his hands. His eyes followed the passersby as they hurried by him. Few looked inside the diner as they marched past. The glass dissuaded most people from peering too closely if they did glance in his direction.

Jeff tipped well, so the small group of potential waitresses didn’t object to him lingering there until he drank five or six cups of coffee. Only one asked him why he enjoyed people watching there. Jeff smiled. “Watching people gives me an endless number of stories to tell. Each one who passes is his or her own universe, one which I get to populate in whatever way comes to me as my muse.” The waitress in question, Shirley, nodded, probably a little surprised by his unexpected answer. She’d seen a lot in twenty-two years of working at the diner.

This afternoon, Jeff had a couple of interesting stories. One older man who had walked past briefly opened his overcoat, revealing a silver pistol shoved into his waistband. A beautiful middle-aged woman had stopped nearby and surprised Jeff by lighting a cigarette. She dropped several things from her small purse. As she bent to retrieve them, her dress rose up, revealing lovely legs. When she stood back up, she looked directly at Jeff and winked. He winked back and nodded. She laughed and walked out of his view.

As Jeff sipped from his cup, a small blue Honda pulled up. The driver, a small man wearing an expensive suit, exited his car, leaving the driver’s door open. In his right hand, he held a small brick. Before Jeff could notice more details, the man swung the brick on the glass on the window about six feet from where Jeff sat. The glass cracked, making an odd popping sound. The man stepped back three or four paces and hurled the brick at the window. As the brick hit the window, it imploded, sending glass cascading inside.

The five or six customers inside turned their heads toward the window in surprise. The glass didn’t go far. Neither did the brick. It fell across the table in the next booth and then skidded to the floor.

Jeff stared at the man who threw the brick. Behind him, he heard Shirley say, “Damn it, Jim, not again!” The tone of her voice conveyed the accusation that he’d done it before. Shirley walked over to where the brick lay on the floor. She picked it up and threw it back out the window. It went further than Jeff anticipated. The man who threw the brick, presumably Jim, picked up the brick, cocked a finger at Shirley, and laughed. He turned, got into his Honda, and drove away.

Shirley turned to the register, where Jinny stood, a bemused look on her face. “Jinny, call Joe, and tell him Jim broke another window!” Shirley turned to Jeff and said, “Refill, hon?” Jeff nodded, unsure of what he had witnessed.

When Shirley came back over to refill his cup, Jeff exclaimed, “Are you going to tell me what that is all about?”

Shirley said, “Well, you’re always looking for stories. Jim is the brother of Joe who owns this diner. Jim breaks a window every year on March 22nd. So Joe takes the day off every year.” She smiled, knowing that although she answered his question, she hadn’t really.

“Okay…” Jeff stammered. “But why? And if he does it every year, why doesn’t someone stop him? Or warn us? Or close? Or whatever?” Jeff realized he sounded a bit foolish as he asked.

“Joe won’t say. He doesn’t call the police, and he won’t file insurance. It’s a big secret.” Shirley laughed. “Not the answer you expected, was it? Now it’s going to drive you crazy like it does the rest of us.”

“Well, I know where I’m going to be next year on March 22nd, Shirley. Right outside, waiting to ask him.” Jeff smiled, knowing that he would.

“Gotta have something to live for, Jeff. I guess I better clean up some of this glass before Joe gets here.” Shirley walked away, presumably to get a broom.

Jeff finished his cup of coffee and watched people look at the broken window as they walked. Curiosity filled everyone’s eyes as they looked. One younger man looked at Jeff as if to say, “What happened?” Jeff shrugged, pretending he didn’t know.

As Jeff stood up to leave, Joe came through the kitchen and around the long counter. To Jeff’s surprise, he was smiling as he looked at the damage.

Jeff laughed as he left. “Truth is stranger than fiction,” he told himself.

Heretoforward March

“Lymph, v.:  to walk with a lisp.”

One of my favorite people asked me half-jokingly if “heretoforward” was a word. When she used it, I understood it in context.

My short answer to the question? Yes, because it conveyed meaning.

Is it proper? Who cares?

I added it to my dictionaries to ensure I use it in the future without being reminded of some arbitrary rule.

“Heretofore” is a ‘real’ word. It supposedly means ‘before now,’ or ‘previously.’

If that stupid word is a ‘real’ word, then so too is ‘heretoforward.’ English is stuffed with ridiculous words, thousands of them, most of them orphans.

It reminds me of the word ‘overmorrow,’ which means ‘the day after tomorrow.’ It’s a good word, one that shouldn’t have fallen out of favor. If we’re going to use logic, let’s take a hard look at some of the rules we take for granted, especially those which make it hard for regular people to immediately understand how our language can be used. I didn’t put the word ‘properly’ in that last sentence because ‘proper’ is a unicorn.

Regarding language, I am not a perfectionist and certainly not a purist. I like language that breaks things and evolves rapidly. If you search the ‘language’ or ‘grammar’ tags of my blog, I’ll probably irritate you with my consistent message: language exists in its present form because we politely agree that it does. It really is that simple.

You can accuse me of laziness all you want. Heretoforward, it won’t bother me. I’ll be over here doing whatever I want with the language. I won’t stray too far because I’m not writing “A Clockwork Orange.” The point is to convey meaning. If I can do that while causing the purists’ hair to stand on end, even better.

Since I’m helping someone new learn a bit of Spanish, I find myself reminding her that English is a bastard language and trying to impose its arbitrary rules on other languages is a recipe for disgust.

P.S. Commenting to tell me how stupid I am wastes your time, not mine. Ha!

The Bolt Of Life (A Story)

My Grandmother Bea surprised me by picking up the framed photograph from the oak table near the door. “It’s time I shared the story with you, John, if you want to hear it?” she asked, knowing my impatience to know was a decade in the making. “Have some tea with me while I tell you.” I wondered about that photograph at least a dozen times over the years. I called it the “Grandmother Mona Lisa” picture.

As I poured a ridiculous amount of honey into my teacup, Bea added the hot tea, using her prized teapot that resembled a rooster with its head craned.

“I was nineteen when this picture was taken. We lived in a little shotgun house no bigger than this living room. It was all heated by a single stove. We barely scraped by. My Uncle John, who you were probably named after, came by Saturday afternoon to give us a tableful of food. We were glad to have it. John worked at one of the mills, and he also loved cards. Though it killed my Dad to know it, John was good at gambling and often returned from his weekend trips to the Mississippi with cash. He always took time to share the wealth with us and a bit for the church up near Cypress. That church burned in 1961. On that Saturday, he came home with a camera. He won it playing cards. The photographer who foolishly played cards with him gave him to him instead of payment. He also showed John how to use it. It’s no small thing to know that your Uncle Thomas got his first guitar from Uncle John. And that guitar took him to Nashville. He also brought home three cars that way.”

Grandmother Bea was smiling in a way that I’d never seen before. She was joyously reaching back into the bygones, reliving the memories. She held up a finger and said, “Let’s celebrate a little.” She reached to the side of her sitting chair and pulled out a small bottle of whiskey. “You didn’t think I wasn’t able to have a little fun, did you?” She laughed. She poured a bit into her cup of tea and offered me some. I accepted it, shaking my head. Dad taught me that it was discourteous to decline a drink in someone else’s house.

“When Uncle John came to see us that day, he brought along a young man named Henry. Henry came back from the river to get a job at one of the mills. It wasn’t unusual for Uncle John to bring back recruits that he thought would be good workers. He was seldom wrong. I was sitting in the kitchen near the back window so I could catch a breeze. When Henry walked through and nodded his head as an introduction, he said, “Miss, pleased to meet you.” When his eyes met mine, I felt like I had been hit by a bolt of lightning. Henry’s brown eyes and dark hair consumed me. Uncle John walked in behind Henry. He must have seen the look on my face because he laughed. He said, “I remember being young!” Henry and Uncle John went to the backyard to sit in the shade with my Dad. After a few minutes, Mom asked me to take them tea. Even though my hands were shaking, I did. As I poured Henry a glass, his eyes met mine, and I almost dropped the glass. Dad asked me if I was alright. “Yes, sir.” Uncle John laughed and gave Dad one of those mischievous looks.

Grandmother Bea laughed, thinking about it. She gulped her tea and set the cup on the small table in front of us.

“Later, when we had sandwiches for an early supper, Henry and I walked along the dirt road that led to Cypress. I was a bit bashful and was tongue-tied. Henry seemed comfortable just walking and stealing an occasional glance at me. I was nineteen and had never done more than steal a quick peck on the lips. But I wanted to hug him like nobody’s business. When we got back to the house, Uncle John wanted to take our picture together, Henry and me. He kept teasing us. Mom told him it wouldn’t be proper, which seemed ridiculous even then. It was just a picture. So Uncle John had me sit by the front door in the fancy chair. Henry kneeled next to me, slightly out of frame. And right before Uncle Henry snapped the picture, Henry unexpectedly reached for my left hand and held it, his fingers encircling my wrist. You can’t see the blush on my face in the black and white photo, but I was flushed. Uncle John brought me the picture before Christmas, after. He told me it was the most beautiful picture he would ever take and that he would never forget how Henry and I looked at each other after the picture. It was then that I confessed to Uncle John what no one had known at the time: before Henry left with Uncle John that evening, Henry came back to me out on the porch, kneeled on one knee, and told me that he was coming back in two weeks to ask my Dad if he might be able to see me until he could earn enough to get married.”

Grandmother Bea took a sharp breath. I knew she was on the verge of being overwhelmed. I reached for her hand and held her delicate fingers as she continued. I knew whatever was coming was terrible and painted with tears.

“I wanted to tell Mom what Henry had said, but I didn’t want to break the spell. Sunday at church, all I could think about was imagining Henry and I standing at the front of the pews as we accepted our vows. It was young and foolish of me, I know. Monday, Henry started his new job at the mill. I knew he’d learn fast with Uncle John helping him. Wednesday afternoon, about 5:30, I heard a car pull up into the yard. I knew it was Uncle John. It was rare for him to visit during the week. He worked hard, and the hours sometimes wore him down. I looked out the front window and saw Dad walking up to meet Uncle John. After a minute of talking, Dad hugged Uncle John. That was a rare thing, even then. They walked around the house to sit under the big shade tree. Mom took them something to drink. When she came back inside, I couldn’t help but ask questions. “What happened, Mom? Did Uncle John get fired?” Mom looked at me strangely. “No. Nothing like that. The boy that he brought with him Saturday? Henry? He got killed this morning at the mill. A log came out of the sander and hit him in the head, killing him instantly.” I don’t remember much after that, only that I ran out of the house and along the dirt road, probably for a mile. Later, Uncle John’s car came up behind me as I shuffled along, my face covered in tears. He got out and hugged me, that I do remember. He held me as I cried. Eventually, he took me home. Mom didn’t ask me any questions. Uncle John likely told her not to.”

As I sat next to Grandmother Bea, I looked at the picture, taken at the happiest moment of her life, or at least the most bittersweet. Henry would have been my Grandfather except for circumstance.

Grandmother Bea spoke as her eyes pooled with tears. “When Uncle John gave me the picture at Christmas, it almost destroyed me. When I told him that Henry had proposed, he smiled and hugged me. “Y’all would have been spectacular, Bea! Don’t let that freeze up your life. Let time take your hand and lead you away from the pain. It just takes time.” He handed me the picture and told me I would have a great life. He was right. I have. But when my first child was born, I thought of Henry. When Uncle John died, it was Henry’s dark eyes that filled my mind. I don’t need a picture of him to know we would have been happy. You can’t see him in this picture, but his face was filled with a smile so large that I can’t bear to think about it. Now you know my story. I’m telling you the story because I know you will have a lot of heartache in your life. We all do. But if you find love, take it by the hand and smile in kindness and love. If you can do that, life will be a breeze.”

For a full minute, Grandmother Bea and I sat, both of us looking at the picture. Without speaking, both of us stood up as I hugged her, hoping that the power of Uncle John’s touch had passed to me. She pulled away from me, her hands on both of my arms. “Now, let’s have another little bit of whiskey and talk about you.” She smiled.
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P.S. I didn’t share the photo because I want each of you to imagine Grandmother Bea as she was, much in the same way that each of us can imagine young Henry’s dark eyes and deep smile. One day, as each of us transitions from flesh to memory, it would serve us well to think of them both, precariously making plans, yet filled with life.

My Story

Periodically, I take the time to write about writing.

The safest writing rule is: “Don’t.”

Everyone who writes struggles to avoid deliberately hurting people when they write. Most writers incorporate bits and bites, if not from whole cloth, from their lives. Good people don’t intentionally stab at others if it can be avoided. Good people also take a breath and consider that they might be filtering the words in a way that’s unintended.

I write stories that combine disparate elements of life. There have been times when I’ve written a story that is one hundred percent fiction and still had people criticize me for ‘stealing their stories.’ In others, I hide the truth in plain sight, as is the case with the stolen baby story, or the one about the vengeful abused girl who grew up to exact her revenge. People share a lot of secrets with me. I am grateful and don’t set out to repay that sharing by hurting them.

It is possible that people will personalize some of the writing. This happens even when their story wasn’t in my head when I wrote it.

That’s part of the reason I remind people to stop raising their hands if they think I’m talking about them.

Chances are, I am not.

Either way, raising your hand or objecting instantly removes the doubt as to whether my writing applies to you. Or more succinctly, that you think it does. (It becomes self-identification.)

While everything that happens to me is fair game for me to write about, anyone who reads what I write should easily see that I am judicious in my restraint and especially so for current shenanigans and goings-on. Time always morphs our initial reactions. We need time to process events; though the immediate ‘take’ we have gives us insight, so too does the passage of time.

I could be fearless and accountable to no one and spew out a wildly true and interesting blog. But it would also result in needless anger, harm, and hurt feelings. That similarity to shouting in anger does have its payoffs – but the consequences to the payoffs are invariably bad and reveals our lesser selves. I fail sometimes to take enough time to consider. Don’t we all? I try not to. But it is critical to understand that we all own our own stories.

So, if you read my blog, you’re going to have to trust that what I post is well-considered, even if ridiculous.

I would write a list of recent “I thought he was talking about” stories, but there are too many.

To be absolutely clear: it is possible that I’m being an asshole and that it isn’t your imagination. If that is communicated to me, I will probably rectify the confusion or applicability. Contrary to what many people think, being an obtuse asshole does not pay off in the long run. Or conversely, I could tell the story in its unvarnished form.

Hey, I’m not perfect. Just give me some leeway here, okay?

Language Belongs To All Of Us

“If we have to guess or spell words phonetically in order to be able to say them properly, why don’t we just change the spelling to be phonetic in the first place?”

I’m a better-than-average speller, but I despise the way our language makes people uncomfortable when using it. Most peoole use only 800 or so distinct words in a day. And most communication is verbal. One of my biggest pleasures is trashing the expectations of those who disagree. We all abuse the language in our own way. It belongs to all of us, to use and misuse as we wish.

Earlier, I witnessed a needless haranguing over language. I intervened jokingly. The self-appointed expert asked me something to exert dominance. I replied in Spanish. “I wasn’t talking in Spanish and I don’t understand it.” I laughed. “No, but he does, so who is the asshole now?”

I intended to write more, but I slipped and fell off my soapbox.

A Random Death

Serendipity, chance, and luck constantly and invisibly ricochet through our minutes. Is this something to be observed with reverence or with gratitude? If our eyes were capable of seeing the criss-cross and intricate paths of danger, we might never relax. The universe is a complex machine of moving parts, any of which can derail our plans without regard to us.

Each of us sits in our homes, confident that our experience will guide us in unforeseen circumstances. Because life seems so mundane most of the time, we seldom see past the veneer of randomness surrounding us. Anyone who doubts this probably didn’t see the recent story of the four-year-old boy killed by a plane crashing on him and his mother as they drove down a small road in Florida. 

Two minutes before the owner snapped the picture of her adopted cat, two men ran through the snow-covered yard, their feet slipping on the hill’s incline. The owner came outside to see if her neighbor Earl was out with his rifle again. She was a bit too late to witness the random events that had unfolded around her.

One of the two running men held his left hand to his side to slow the flow of blood from the bullet hole he acquired near the road. The other man pursued him, aiming his silenced gun at random intervals and firing. A few trees noted their passing as they ran, having been on the receiving end of the bullets intended for the bleeding man.

The chase started half of a mile from the impassive cat. The fleeing man jumped out of his sedan as it slowly continued to roll past him. He knew that the slight rise against the road would give him a few seconds of concealment. When he stood up to run in a sprint across the snow, he was surprised to feel a stabbing pain in his side. Without turning to look, he knew that his pursuer had shot him, evidently expecting him to run precisely as he had. Acknowledging that he would undoubtedly be killed, he decided to make his pursuer earn the right. He didn’t begrudge the man; he had been in the same situation a dozen times. He had been lucky enough to be the survivor. Today was not his day. 

As the two men ran up the hill, the cat turned its head to look in their direction. Though neither men noted the cat along the deck railing, Assassin noted their passing. The men would have been shocked to know that the cat hailed from Detroit and that its previous owner was a notorious killer himself. 

As the men cleared the top of the hill, the pursuer stopped and aimed carefully at his victim. It would end here, in the impersonal cold. He watched his fleeing victim also stop, waiting for the bullet that was to come.

As his finger tightened on the trigger, he felt a sharp pain in his temple. He didn’t feel the side of his head exploding outwardly as a single bullet entered his head. He fell in a heap on the snow and leaves.

As the fleeing man stopped, his breath came in huge gasps. His hand pressed hard against his side. He heard the echo of a hunting rifle but felt no impact. He turned slowly, puzzled to see his pursuer dead on the snowy ground.

He turned a bit more. An older man stood on his back deck about thirty yards away, a rifle in his hands. As the pursued man looked, the old man nodded toward the road. “Leave your gun right there and go,” he said. His voice was raspy and carried surprisingly well across the stillness. 

The pursued man dropped his gun on the ground and walked toward the road. Whether the old man would shoot him too was beyond his control. He focused on placing one foot in front of the other. Doing so had saved his life several times over the years. Don’t think, just move. There would be time later to wonder how the old man decided who to shoot. 

Earl, the old man in question, took out a cigarette and lit it. 

“Honey, I got another one,” Earl shouted toward the sliding glass doors along his deck. 

In a minute, he’d get his four-wheeler and retrieve the body. The neighbors were no longer surprised by a rifle shot coming from Earl’s direction. There was no hurry. He was going to finish his cigarette first. 

As Earl continued to smoke, the cat Assassin sat perched on the railing. Both peered out at the same snowy ground. Both waited, though neither knew for what. Around them, the universe continued. 

March OF Yesteryear

The Springdale diner once stood proudly along Highway 71. Its gravel parking lot was a declaration of authenticity for those who frequented it. Though the town was growing, most residents chose the diner as their default. The waitresses were all grouchy, except for Macy, who loved everyone. The owner’s wife Mildred hated Macy for that very reason. It didn’t help matters that Macy was pretty and outgoing; Mildred looked an anvil with legs. Her singing voice in the church caused several devout Methodists to defect to the Baptist camp. If Mildred handled the register, tips usually went up due to many people choosing to pay the bill by dropping money on the table and bypassing Mildred.

Coffee flowed through the diner and the people inside it like a caffeine river. Had self-serve carafes existed then, the residents of Springdale would not have been pleased. Half the reason to have a go-out, sit-down meal was to interact and verbally jostle with those you’d encounter doing the same. Many of the wives claimed that such things didn’t matter, but most had carefully applied lipstick and checked their hairdo at least ten times that morning. Quite a few used Saturday morning to see their hairdressers.

On that March day, the wind blew and howled across the two-lane streets, taking dust and chicken feathers to every crevice. Not that townsfolk were uppity enough to drive convertibles, but if they had, their smiles would have been feather-filled and their lungs coated with the detritus of poultry.

By noon, all but one seat in the diner was filled. The exception was the chair always reserved for the diner’s unofficial number one eater. Earl only visited once or twice a week because his nephew Lou needed to drive him there. Earl saved the diner owner’s life in WWII. He would never pay for a meal for the rest of his life. Many people were unaware that Macy, the pretty waitress, was Earl’s daughter.

Macy and the other three waitresses ran from the kitchen window to tables, their fingers doing triple-duty as they placed plates, refilled drinks, and cleared tables. Wives secretly watched their husbands as their eyes followed Macy as she did her work. Most tolerated it as harmless fun. It was easy to see which wives were easygoing and which could rain hellfire down on their spouses’ heads. You could witness moms hitting the husbands with the same frequency they swatted at their kid’s perceived misbehavior.

Most of the diners chose the Saturday special. Today’s was meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, rolls, and a slice of one of seven pie varieties.

As the families ate, you’d occasionally see different folks stand up to give a quick “Hello” to someone. Such courtesies were a requirement of Saturday eating. If someone needed a longer word, they could step outside and have a cigarette and watch the traffic pass by. The ladies opted for the coat rack. Gossip was expected there, even though they disguised it with half-whispers and cautious glances around before divulging the latest news.

As the wind howled, the front door of the diner came open. Dozens of feathers eddied and blew inside. None of the people inside looked up or noticed.

The diner welcomed all visitors: even feathers, both the curse and the fuel for this town.